


Lessons Learned

by siennavie



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Gen, Swordfighting, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just one reason to study, learn, and practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lessons Learned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artisticabandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artisticabandon/gifts).



John figures this must be a new record for meeting an alien race, accidentally insulting said alien race, and being challenged to a fight to the death. Fine, maybe he's exaggerating the last part a little bit. Winner only has to draw first blood. _Which could mean anything from a paper cut to a severed limb. Nice one, John!_

Even if John did manage to walk away with only a scratch, it still didn't bode well that Rodney was currently locked in a cage. A cage that was hanging ten feet over an ominous hole in the ground. Yeah, Rodney wasn’t exactly letting him forget it either; in fact, he was expressing his discontent quite loudly.

"Not exactly helping my concentration, Rodn—" John bites off the last syllable with a grunt when his opponent's blade comes crashing against his own. The collision sends a stinging shockwave up his arm, but he manages to twist his sword and block the unfriendly steel with the cross-guard. He won't win points for grace, but at least he'll be alive to count them. _Thank you, Ronon, for the lessons, albeit an inadequate amount in hindsight_.

John bats the enemy sword away and darts backward a few steps to buy time before the next engagement. 

His obviously skilled and confident opponent—a tall and leanly muscled man, not unlike John himself—smiles knowingly. The bastard has been testing him. Taking one swing here. Another swing there. At one point, lunging forward without actually attacking just to startle John. 

To the audience, John suspects he looks like a cowed sheep being herded and stalked by a predator. But John pictures himself as a…wolf in sheep’s clothing. Yeah, that fits the metaphor. Where the predator becomes the prey, or something like that. _Positive thinking, John._

He's been studying Bruce—John doesn't actually know his name, but he looks like a Bruce to John—looking for a weakness or a drop in his guard. Or perhaps a strange quirk of fortune where Bruce gets a charley horse. A guy could hope.

Seriously, all this because the Boy King of Siccaecius—indeed, the boy couldn't be older than fifteen, hormones visibly wreaking havoc across his face—had complimented Rodney's mastery of science, and John had made a joke about Rodney's ego instead of bestowing even greater compliments to the King's own Chief Intelligence Advisor.

 _What an egotistical, narcissistic, pompous, arrogant bra_ —John irritably shoves away another teasing swing.

The accidental insult had quickly escalated to a shouting match and an armed standoff, much to SGA-1's confusion. Teyla, John, and even the aforementioned Chief Intelligence Advisor had lobbied for an alternative solution, say, for example, an apology. But the young, impetuous King had been unbending, and his many Royal Guards had picked up their blades, slowly but surely, to enforce the Royal Order. Unwilling to engage in a firefight with the boy, John had allowed the guards to strip the team of their weapons and lead them here; the arena where the ‘Gods’ would decide who truly had the smartest, wisest, fairest Nerd in all the land by having two ‘Champions’ duel with swords until ‘blood is divinely spilled and the Gods' will has been spoken.’ 

"This is ridiculous! I don't need anyone defending my honor!" Rodney had snapped indignantly when the guards began to usher him into what could only be described as an extremely gaudy, gilded birdcage.

"You are volunteering to be your own Champion?" the King had inquired, looking oddly sincere.

Rodney's face had fallen comically and in a small voice said, "Uh, well, no, not exactly. I'll just…"—he took the final step into the cage and closed the door—"wait right here." He flapped his fingers at them. "Carry on."

The Chief Intelligence Advisor had received a similar treatment; the man had looked more annoyed than anything, so John figured this was really nothing to worry about, just pomp and circumstance.

Until the two cages had been hoisted into the air and black pits had opened up below them.

The team had protested, but when the only choice was to forfeit and thus lose Rodney to heaven-knows-where or, possibly worse, heaven-knows-what, well…it wasn't a choice at all.

Unfortunately, the King had refused Ronon's bid to be Rodney's champion. Something about the leader carrying the flag, yada yada. But obviously, that rule didn't apply to the King. _Obviously_. But other than that, there were no other rules, the King had declared with a radiant smile and a gleam in his eyes that vexed John.

And that’s how John had ended up in the ring, with Ronon and Teyla sidelined and flanked by guards. 

He hasn’t been able to look for them since the start of the fight, to make sure they’re okay; all of his focus is trained on his opponent. And that’s how he catches it.

A subtle shift in Bruce's stance, a tightening of the muscles that reaches his face that tells John the next attack is going to be in earnest. When the first strike comes, swiftly followed by a second and a third, all of John's limited swordsmanship skill flies out the window. He swings his blade upward without a thought for technique or finesse and just lets instinct take over. 

He parries the first four blows, but the fifth catches his sword and he's out of position as the enemy blade arcs high toward his left shoulder—

_Sunlight streams in through the stained glass window and glistens on the floor beneath his feet._

_Teyla stands opposite and smiles at him serenely; John returns the gesture._

_The peaceful moment is broken by the dull clack of wood on wood. Teyla is the first to attack. She launches a flurry of blows, Bantos rods flying high and low, sharp, quick, precise, while John is forced onto defense. John's back is nearly against the wall, so he manages an impressive spin—if he does say so himself—but Teyla nimbly ducks his counter-swing...and whacks him on his retreating ass._

_Later, he'll say to his teacher: "Y'know, no matter how many hours I put into this, you're still gonna kick my ass."_

_Teyla favors him with an amused, indulgent smile. "It is not for the winning that we practice."_

_"Then what's the point?"_

John steps sideways, bending low at the waist, and swoops right-to-left under the length of the blade. He's not even close to being as lithe and graceful as Teyla in pulling off that maneuver, but it gets him out of the path of deadly steel. Minus a few cowlicks perhaps. 

He jogs away and finds a chance to reset his stance and his sword. He knows he won't last long in a fight like this, so he has to make a decisive move soon.

John hopes to surprise Bruce by striking first this time. It's not enough to unbalance his opponent, but it's enough to give John control of this engagement. So when their blades cross and lock high in mid-air, and it becomes a battle of power and will—

_"Grab the other guy's flag, huh? That's it."_  
 _"That's it."_  
 _"No penalties and stuff?"_  
 _"What?"_  
 _"Well, if the other guy pulls your hair and tries to bite ya…"_  
 _"Bite back," Ronon states plainly._

John releases tension suddenly, lets momentum tip his opponent off-balance. He snaps his sword to the outside and sweeps the enemy blade downward into a prone position, and as Bruce teeters forward, John steps in and sharply knees him in the gut. While the man is bent over wheezing, John strikes him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his sword. Bruce crashes face-first to the ground, dazed. John kneels beside the fallen man and makes a clean, shallow slice across an exposed bicep. A bead of blood pools quickly and drops to the dusty ground.

There's a loud clang that startles John. He looks up just in time to see the bottom fall out of the Chief Intelligence Advisor's birdcage. With a yelp, the man falls and disappears into the black hole below. His scream echoes up the tunnel, but it's rather short-lived. John doesn't know if that's a good or a bad thing. He's just relieved to see Rodney's cage being swung away from the hole and lowered to solid ground, and the rest of his teammates approaching from the sidelines.

In the stands, he sees the Boy King shooting a daggered glare at his Guards, but none of them acknowledge their liege while they proceed with unlocking Rodney’s cage and returning gear and weapons to his team.

The boy flushes pink and shifts awkwardly in his throne chair. Obviously not getting the reaction he had hoped for, the King turns his gaze on John instead. 

John stands up, now flanked by his team, and meets the boy’s eyes impassively.

Seemingly oblivious of John's frosty mood, the King straightens up in his chair, puffs out his chest, and says in a lofty voice, "Well, Colonel Sheppard, it would appear that you have won." _Gracious, isn’t he._

"As you know," the King continues, "I require the best of the best in my Court. I will pay you grandly for Doctor McK—"

"What?! Listen here, you little b—"

John doesn't disagree, but elbows Rodney in the ribs: "Let's not insult the little big man again, hm?" he murmurs under his breath. Rodney crosses his arms and harrumphs, but let's reason triumph over emotion.

"He's not for sale." John’s voice is quiet but clear.

He can see Rodney's face turning red from the corner of his eye, and there's a distinct chill rolling off his other teammates, but the last thing he needs right now is a moral argument about slavery with a hormonal king prone to tantrums. He just wants to get his team safely home.

The boy’s face darkens and complete silence descends on the arena. Just as John’s thinking there will be no nice and easy way to get out of this, a loud, spluttering, hacking cough draws everyone’s attention. 

John’s eyebrows greet his hairline when the Chief Intelligence Advisor strides into the arena, two anxious-looking guards trailing closely behind on each side. His teammates look at each other with matching expressions of surprise.

The Advisor is in one piece, but soaking wet, shoes squeaking with every step, robes glued to his skinny frame. None of this, however, diminishes the intensity of the scowl on his face. The Boy King noticeably wilts under the Advisor’s gaze. 

John doesn't wait to see how it plays out. He takes the distraction for the opportunity it is and walks away, his team unwaveringly following his lead.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Livejournal Sheppard_HC Winter Fic Exchange 2014. The prompt was "sword fights". Flashbacks with Ronon and Teyla taken from/inspired by S1E13 Hot Zone, S2E08 Conversion, and S3E17 Sunday.
> 
> Many thanks to two lovely ladies: saltandburnboys for giving me confidence in this story, and firesign10 for cleaning this up and making it better :)


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